


Shield to the King

by ohmyfae



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cinderella AU, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: A Gladio/Noctis Cinderella AU:When Clarus Amicitia dies in his duty to the crown, Gladio’s mother takes him and his sister, Iris, to the country, claiming that she is rescuing Gladio from the same fate as Noctis’ future shield. There, Gladio is isolated, left to take care of Iris while trying to mollify his mother, who is resentful of the way the Amicitias take loyalty to the crown above their personal lives and well-being.Then, after it’s made clear that Gladio will never return to Insomnia, news gets around that the king is holding a tournament to determine who would be Prince Noctis’ future shield.Gladiohasto go, but it’s going to take a miracle to get him there.





	1. Chapter 1

Gladiolus Amicitia stood in the doorway of the shrine to Etro, the goddess of death, and watched the black lantern that was her symbol swing from its chain on the ceiling. It was a heavy, round lantern, shaped like a sphere, and the eternal flame within flickered through thin slats like dozens of narrow eyes, casting spots on the wall. The shrine was full of people Gladio barely recognized in their black suits and robes, and at nine years old, he was too wary to approach them. His mother was somewhere in the press of people with the king, but the lines of dark cloth and tight-drawn faces felt like a wall. 

A cold hand slipped in his, and Gladio jumped. Prince Noctis, small for a boy of six, pushed his shoulder against Gladio’s. He was always following Gladio around these days, him and his friend Ignis, who was probably stranded in the middle of the crowd. They stuck to him like burrs, even when he wanted to be alone, all because his father…

Because his dad…

Gladio looked from the swinging lantern to the coffin at the end of the shrine. Noctis squeezed his hand.

“I don’t like it, either,” he whispered.

Gladio felt a prickling of shame at that. He was an Amicitia: The last in a long line of shields to the king. One day, he’d take on that role for Noctis, just as his dad had been a shield to King Regis. It would be his job to protect _Noct,_ not the other way around. 

Or it could have been. He thought of his mother’s harsh, clipped words to the king a few days before. _You think I would let my son take the same mantle that killed his father?_ The king had nothing to say to that. Even Gladio thought she’d almost sounded sincere. 

Almost.

So Gladio had helped her pack up the house, and watched as the place where he’d grown up, the home where his mother’s laugh was nothing more than a dim memory and his father’s presence was like a ghost wandering through the halls, dwindled away into empty space.

Part of him wanted to walk through the wall of adults and ask the king to take him in anyways, to let him stay behind while his mother moved off to Duscae. He could sleep in the Crownsguard barracks and keep training under Cor Leonis, like he’d been before his mother called off his lessons a few months before. 

But then there was Iris. She was only a year old, and she already squealed and babbled when she saw Gladio peering down at her from over the edge of the crib. There’d been too many tense nights lately, when Gladio had woken to the first sound of hiccupping and had to hurriedly walk Iris through the nursery, trying to calm her down before their mother woke up and came flying into the room. Where would Iris be without him? Who would change her diapers, or feed her, or hold her when she woke up and cried in the dark?

“I’ll come back,” Gladio said. He looked at Noct. “You know that, right? I’ll come back, and I’ll be your shield. It won’t be forever.”

“It feels like it,” Noct said.

Gladio only held his hand, and stared at the black, sleek coffin where his father’s body lay, dressed in black robes and bearing a sword that shone against his cold, brittle fingers.

 

\---

 

In the summer of Gladio’s thirteenth year, Laurel Amicitia came home laden with shopping bags full of school supplies, uniforms for Iris, and good news for Gladio.

“You won’t have to go back to school in the fall,” she told him, as she unpacked bag after bag of fine, silk dresses and gloves. They slithered on the bed in pools of cloth, and she glanced at Gladio, who bit back a sigh and helped her hang them up. “The law says you can leave at fifteen, and your fifteenth birthday just passed, didn’t it?”

“Actually,” Gladio said, “I’m only thir—“

“Don’t talk back, Gladiolus,” his mother said, and Gladio fell silent. “I know how uncomfortable school makes you. So I found you a job that sounds _right_ up your alley. A boy like you needs to be outside in the fresh air, not cooped up in some _expensive_ school that’ll send him nowhere. Don’t you agree?”

Gladio said nothing. He liked school—It was boring, sure, not as challenging as his tutors back at the Citadel had been, but he was pretty good at math, and he was looking forward to taking the advanced history courses that fall. Not only that, but they had a school trip to Insomnia for the eighth-graders, and Gladio had secretly been packing for it for years. But Laurel had a roughness to her voice that Gladio had learned to recognize, and he knew he had to tread carefully.

“They say,” he said, slowly hanging up a fur stole, “that people who graduate get better jobs—“

“But we need you _here,_ ” Laurel said. “And you can always study on your own. I hate to tell you this, Gladio…” She pursed her lips, and pushed her light brown hair over her shoulder. “But it’s your father’s pension. There’s only enough money to pay for _one_ of you to go to school, and you wouldn’t want to deprive your sister of her chance, would you? And we do need help around the house, now that funds are so tight.”

Gladio couldn’t help it. He glanced down at the new clothes on the bed, and she _tsked._ Shit. 

“Maybe,” Gladio said, despite every cell in his body screaming for him to _shut up_ and _leave,_ “if I went back to Insomnia, and trained as Noct’s shield, we could get the money we need… we need to…” 

Laurel frowned. She set down her newest acquisition, and gently tugged at the ends of her gloves.

“Again,” she said, “with this talk of being a _shield._ What did being a _shield_ do for your father, Gladiolus? Long nights away from home, away from _me,_ from you, and an early grave? Is that what you want?”

“You don’t understand,” Gladio said. 

“I do.” Laurel dropped her gloves on the bed. “More than you know. I thought I could cure you of this, Gladiolus. What do I need to do? What else is there? Are you _bored?_ I can give you more work—“

“No,” Gladio said. “It’s not… I’m an Amicitia—”

“And I’m not?” 

Gladio didn’t answer. The silence spoke for him. 

“Really, Gladiolus,” Laurel said, as Gladio shrank into the mass of beautiful dresses in her closet, which folded around him like the wings of a bird of prey. “One would think that you’d be _grateful._ ”

 

\---

 

Iris found him behind the garden shed a few hours later, holding a practice sword he’d fashioned out of the handle of an old rake. She waited while he went through the drills he’d learned in the Citadel, flawlessly executing the same moves over and over, mixing them up in different patterns and paces. His skin was shiny with sweat, and he had to keep readjusting his grip on the handle. Finally, with a jab that killed his imaginary opponent and landed a firm thunk against the wood of the shed, he dropped the handle and bowed.

“Not bad, Noct,” he said.

Iris applauded, and he turned to her, his cheeks flushing dark. Iris ran forward, her new shoes kicking up dust, and spun in a circle in front of him. 

“Mom got me new clothes!” she cried. She grinned up at Gladio, but it took him a few seconds to smile back, and his lips were thin, like he was biting down on them. 

“Lookin’ sharp, kid,” he said. He was standing funny, tilting part of his face away from her, and Iris leaned over to find a faint mark of a bruise at his cheekbone.

“Gladdy, you’re hurt again,” she said. He was always getting hurt. Sometimes he’d trip over the stair and hurt his back, or trap his fingers while he was cooking, or knock into something while he was doing chores. Really, Iris thought, for someone who could move so gracefully when he pretended to fight, he was too clumsy to live. She pointed down, and Gladio sighed loudly, leaning over so that his face was level with hers. She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him right below the bruise. He winced and straightened. 

“Thanks, Iris,” he said. “I feel a lot better now.”

“Good. _Sooo,_ school starts in a week,” Iris said. She hopped on her toes. “That means we can walk together, and eat lunch together, and do homework together and…”

Gladio laughed and turned her around, walking with her across the lawn of their home at the border of Duscae. Bees hovered in the little garden he liked to keep up, and wove around the laundry he liked to take down, and the windows he liked to wash sparkled gold against the light of the setting sun. 

That night, Gladio set two plates at dinner, one for Iris and one for their mother. Then he winked at Iris, and his gaze scuttled away from their mother as he headed up the stairs to his room in the attic.

“Isn’t he hungry?” Iris asked, even though she knew her mother hated noise. Laurel only smiled.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, dear,” she said, in her _no more talking, please,_ voice. Iris looked down at her plate. “It’s probably just a phase.”

The next week, Gladio walked Iris to school as promised, but he didn’t follow her in. He stood at the gate and waved her off, avoiding the curious calls of his friends from the upper school, and turned to walk back the way he came, an awkward, broad-shouldered figure in clothes too small for him, disappearing round the dirt road towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Gladio gets a fairy godfather.


	2. Chapter 2

Gladio’s new job was at the local Hunter outpost a thirty minute walk away, which piqued his interest for all of ten seconds before he found out what he was hired to do. 

“Ain’t nobody got time to clean,” said Dave, the man who showed Gladio to the ancient washer and dryer unit they had hooked up behind their radio shed. “And the damn radio’s always busted. You don’t know electronics, do you?”

“Uh, not really,” Gladio said. 

“You’ll learn.” 

Gladio followed Dave through a dusty, scraggly yard to the mess hall, where he was introduced to Helga, the almost sentient stack of dishes that hunters had been ignoring since time forgot, and Bertha, the hand-pump fifteen minutes away where the only water that could be trusted had to be hauled out in buckets. Then he met The Dump, or the caravan that hapless visitors used when the nearby haven was too full, and the shed, which crawled with centipedes but had a serviceable mop in the back. Then Dave slapped him on the shoulder, told him it was fifteen gil an hour, and walked off to join some hunters at the picnic tables near the gate. 

“Noct would die,” Gladio said, examining Helga with a critical eye. Then he shrugged, grabbed the buckets, and made his way to the water pump. 

Gladio came home four hours later, saw the baskets of laundry sitting out in the carport, and lay down in the grass until Iris’ school let out. He cursed himself for picking the attic room when they moved in, and dragged his sorry self up the stairs only to find a new list of daily chores his mother expected him to finish. 

She was probably hoping that between work and home, he wouldn’t have _time_ to think about being a shield. 

Except all of Gladio’s tasks, between whittling down Helga, cleaning up after the hunters, and minding the house, kept his hands busy but his mind unoccupied. Without exams to distract him, Gladio found his thoughts drifting further and further away, off to the spires of the Citadel. He drew pictures of it in the steam of the sink, tuned the radio to Insomnia’s main news network so many times that the hunters were starting to complain, and would sit a ways off from the hunters during his breaks, watching them spar or clean their weapons. They had a different style of fighting, Gladio realized, more urgent than Gladio’s lessons with his dad or with Cor. It was all about speed and efficiency, in dealing the most damage in the least amount of time. When Gladio came home, he’d practice behind the shed, marking spots in the grass to keep track of where he placed his feet. 

He was getting stronger, too. Weeks of carrying water, hauling laundry, and doing odd jobs around the HQ put a swell on Gladio’s muscles. He could do push-ups without breaking a sweat, and he wasn’t so winded on the long walk home. 

Helga had finally disappeared, leaving only a scum-covered sink and a lingering smell of mold, when Gladio heard the news. A member of the Crownsguard was in town, there to stock the Hunter HQs with curatives from the capital. The hunters were in an uproar about it, gossiping like hens while Gladio cleaned out the caravan for whoever it was. He was halfway through dragging the rug out the door in hopes of beating whatever mites crawled inside into submission, when he heard an uncomfortable cough at his back. 

Cor Leonis, Marshal of the Crownsguard, leaned against a black car parked in the dirt road, brows knit tight. Gladio set the rug back down.

“Gladio?” Cor’s voice was softer than Gladio remembered. “You need any help with that?”

Gladio had a feeling he wasn’t asking about the rug. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, just a short, agonized breath. 

“Come on,” Cor said. He jerked his head towards the picnic tables. “Let’s catch up.”

“I got work,” Gladio said, unsure. 

“Yeah? They know you’re thirteen?” Cor held his gaze, and Gladio looked down. “Thought so. Hurry up, I’ll buy you lunch.”

They sat together in the corner table, out of range of the wasp nest Gladio hadn’t bothered smoking out, and shared the worst canned-meat sandwiches he’d ever eaten. Cor watched him as he ate, sizing him up, lingering on the hunch of his shoulders and the closed-in way he sat. 

“The prince isn’t taking a new shield,” he said, when Gladio had given up on his sandwich. Gladio’s breath hitched, and he coughed. “Thought you might want to know.”

“Is he… okay?” Gladio asked. “I wanted to send a letter, but Mom said it would make it worse…”

Cor’s face was as expressionless as ever. “He misses you,” he said. “You still planning on coming back?” Gladio nodded. 

“When Iris is old enough,” he said. 

“Then you need to practice,” Cor said. He pulled out a phone and flipped through the screen, stopping to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m here ‘til Wednesday. You here every day?” Gladio shrugged. “Try that one again, Gladio.”

“Yes, sir.” Gladio sank into the rote-remembered mindset of their lessons, his shoulders straightening reflexively. 

“And how do you get home?” Cor asked. 

Gladio narrowed his eyes. “I… walk?”

“No, you don’t.” Cor stood, and Gladio followed his example. “From now on, you jog. When that isn’t a challenge anymore, you run. It’ll build up your stamina. Now, stand over here and let me show you some stances.”

Gladio could feel the eyes of the hunters on him as Cor led him through the stances that would keep him rooted in the face of an attack. He ordered Gladio to try them out whenever he was standing still for more than thirty seconds, and showed him exercises to keep both his sword and shield arm limber. By that time, Gladio’s break was done, but Cor stayed with him, filling him in on news from the Citadel. 

“Noctis would be glad to hear from you,” he said, when Gladio started to pack his things up for home. “I’m guessing your mom’s still against this?” Gladio grimaced. “Well, if you can get a letter to me before Wednesday, I’ll bring it to the prince myself.”

Gladio jogged home in a daze, barely noticing the cars that swerved around him or the distant scramble of monsters behind the fence. His mind buzzed with activity, drafting and scrapping letter after letter to the prince. 

_Dear Noct,_ he thought, as he stopped with his hands on his knees at the driveway, sweat stinging in his eyes. _How’ve you been? I’m doing great._ He shouted into the dark house for his mother, but only saw another list of chores, complete with a scrawled smiley face. 

_Dear Noct,_ he thought again, cleaning out the kitchen. _Things are..._

He found his old history book jammed behind the 1001 Recipes For Beginners binder he’d been slogging through lately, and brushed his finger along the spine.

 _Dear Noct, Things aren’t okay._

He put the book away, and opened the fridge.

 _Dear Noct, I want to go home._

He kept an eye on the clock as he prepped for dinner, and fell into one of the stances Cor had taught him. Another hour before Iris’ classes were over. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it to the school gate in time.

 _Dear Noct, I—_

It took him three days to write the letter. In that time, Cor taught him how to take a fall, how to hold himself when he was favoring his shield arm, and a whole new set of drills to match. He bought a beat-up shield from the back of a truck and had Gladio go through the drills with it strapped to his arm, and Gladio hid it under a tarp in the shed when he was done. 

Other times, Cor would just sit with him, or go walking across the lawn to the haven. He’d talk about his own training, or Clarus’, and would point out rock formations or patches of earth and say, “Alright, Gladio. Where would you have the advantage?” They’d play a complicated back and forth game, Gladio moving his imaginary fighters about while Cor’s decimated them. Gladio started looking at everything that way: High ground, low ground, corners and defensive positions. He planned battle maneuvers in the living room and crafted fights in the garden. He even pulled out his dad’s old chess set and taught Iris how to play. 

The letter he gave Cor was five pages long and full of corrections. There was too much he wanted to say, and too much he _couldn’t._ He hoped it would be enough. Cor didn’t look at it, just folded it up and tucked it in his inner jacket pocket and told Gladio he’d keep in touch.

“I don’t think Mom’s gonna like that,” Gladio said. She barely talked about his dad’s old friends anymore. Cor gave him another slow look.

“I’ll find a way around it,” he said. “You just work on that gap in your defense.” 

 

Three weeks later, a package arrived at Hunter HQ for Gladio. Gladio lifted out leather bracers for his wrists, bags of sand for strengthening his grip, a book on tactics that was falling apart at the seams, and a two-page letter from Prince Noctis. Noct’s handwriting was awful, most of the letter was just questions about where Gladio had been, and translating Noct’s spelling was like working out a code, but it was more than enough. Gladio kept the letter wedged between the gap of his mirror and the wall at home, and reread it so often that the pages went soft within a month. 

The hunters started treating Gladio differently, now. They’d seen him with Cor Leonis, the legend of the Crownsguard, and approached him with their own tips and suggestions for building up his strength. One hunter, a woman nearly a foot shorter than him with a round face and wild red hair, taught him a move with a sword that could disarm a faster opponent before they could blink. She had Gladio practice it, over and over, using an old sword from the shed, until he felt like he could do it in his sleep. Another hunter taught him how to grapple, and another showed him that anything could be used as a weapon if you thought about it the right way. 

Small packages from the capital arrived every month or so, bearing books and charts and hand-written instructions from Cor himself, bundled up with the occasional letter from Noctis and Ignis. Ignis’ letters were always brief and to the point, while Noctis’ rambled everywhere, his thoughts disjointed. Gladio risked using the mailbox at HQ to send a letter back once in a while. 

No packages or letters made their way to the house. 

Clarus’ pension slowly started to run thin, and so did Laurel’s patience. Nothing was good enough: Not the second shift of work Gladio picked up, not his attempts to fix the plumbing and wiring problems that came with their old house, not the meals or the cleaning or his clumsy attempts at landscaping the lawn. Iris and Gladio took their chess games outside, and meals were quick and deathly silent. Gladio took to eating in the kitchen most of the time, and Iris would join him there afterwards, helping him wash up while their mother went back to bed.

“She never talks about Dad,” Iris said one night, as she and Gladio sat in his attic room with their father’s chess set. “Maybe it’d be better if she did.”

“I dunno, kid,” Gladio said. “Not sure if it’s even _about_ him anymore.” He moved his queen to take her high priest. Iris frowned at the board, and moved her castle.

“It just feels wrong sometimes,” she said. “Running away without her. I mean, she’s always been nice to _me._ ” Iris moved her knight out of the way of Gladio’s oncoming queen, and sighed. “But I think that’s ‘cause she puts everything on you.”

“Dad and I are a lot alike,” Gladio said. “It's hard on her. You take after him, too; She doesn’t notice it.”

Iris was silent for a long moment. “You don’t think _I_ could’ve been a shield, too? Like Dad?”

“Don’t see why not.”

Iris’ knight took his high priest. “If I wanted you to teach me,” she said, choosing her words as carefully as she moved her pieces across the board, “like Dad taught you… would you?”

Gladio looked down at her, a skinny, short kid in a dark dress, looking up at him with his father’s eyes and his mother’s tight, worried frown. 

“Sure,” he said. “If you can beat me in chess first. Checkmate, by the way.” 

“What? No!” Iris grabbed at her fallen pieces, scowling at Gladio’s grin of triumph. “Best three out of five?”


	3. Chapter 3

Iris sat on the outdoor windowsill in the side yard of the Amicitia home, kicking her stockinged feet against the wall while Gladio wrestled with the laundry. She was still in her school uniform, and the flowers that bloomed in the boxes on either side of her tickled her arms as she held up a worn, much-loved paperback.

“Better that I love you now,” she read, with all the passion that her eight year-old heart could muster, “and die today than spend a thousand life… lifetimes without your name on my heart. For in your love I have been reborn, and though my body weakens and the light fades from this last glor-i-ous sunrise, my soul is made immortal.”

“Nice,” Gladio said, draping a comforter over two lines. 

“Nice?” Iris closed the book over her pinky finger so as not to lose her place. “That’s it? They fought a god for each other, and Tidus is _dying_ , and all you have to say is _nice?_ ”

“Pretty much,” said Gladio. He brushed an ant off the drying line. “Look, Iris, I don’t know if I buy it. It’s just…” he waved his hand. “Love’s great, but it ain’t immortal. It don’t last. Look at Mom and Dad.”

Iris sighed. “What about you and Prince Noctis?”

Gladio froze, and his face went still and cold like it did when he was about to tell a lie. “Noct and I are friends, Iris.”

“Yeah?” Iris kicked her feet harder on the wall. “How come I can always tell when you get a letter? You go into the kitchen and you turn the radio up and sing that dumb song even though you can’t hit the high notes.”

“You know what, I don’t have to take this from a snot-nosed second-grader,” Gladio said. He walked off down the line of washing. Iris squealed and jumped down from the window seat. She put her hands out before her as she followed Gladio, flinging her hair back dramatically. 

“Oh baby, I’m. So. Into you,” she sang.

“Iris, no.”

“Darling if you only knew!”

“Iris, I don’t _sing_ that—“

“All the things that flow through my mi-i-ind!” Iris stopped, placed both hands on her hips, and sang, “But it’s just a sweet, sweet fantasy, ba-by, when I close my eyes, you come and—“

She shrieked as Gladio lifted her into his arms, slinging her over his shoulder.

“It’s true!” she cried. “Gladio Amicitia loves Prince Noctis! Gladio Amicitia loves—“

“ _Iris._ ” Gladio’s voice was tight, almost choking, and Iris heaved herself up on his shoulders to look around. Their mother was standing at the door to the yard, watching them. Iris felt her cheeks go hot.

“What’s all this noise about, Gladio?” Their mother’s voice was sweet, kind, like it always was when Gladio was about to get in trouble.

“Iris making up some kind of game,” Gladio said. He set her down and shrugged. “What kind of manga are you reading, kiddo? Prince and princess stuff?”

“Moon princess,” Iris said. 

“Maybe you should lay off those books for a while,” Gladio told her, but he winked, so she knew he was kidding. “Go finish up your homework.”

“You should do your homework outside, baby,” her mother said. “Gladio and I have things to talk about.”

Iris looked to her brother. “I need him to help with math,” she said. 

“It’ll be okay,” Gladio said.

“It _won’t,_ ” Iris said, as the two of them walked into the house. “I _need_ him, he doesn’t have to, he didn’t do anything—“ The door shut, and Iris stamped her foot, storming over to her bag of homework sitting under the window. She dragged open her math book, but couldn’t focus on the numbers. Instead, she kept her ears trained on the house. 

She flinched at the first shout she heard. That was her mom, somewhere up high. The attic? Then a murmur of Gladio’s voice, and her mom again, louder this time. Iris gave up all pretense and used her math book to climb onto the window again. She jimmied it open a crack, and her mother’s voice trailed in from upstairs. 

“How long were you planning to keep this from me, Gladiolus?” she heard. Then there was the worst sound, the sound Iris hated, and then Gladio’s voice, too soft to make out. “ _When you and Iris move into the Citadel…_ You and _Iris?_ You’d drag _her_ into this? You live under _my_ roof, in _my_ house—“

“Which me and Dad pay for,” Gladio said. Iris gasped. 

“Then go. Go on, Gladio. Go to Insomnia, leave your family behind. But if you try to contact Iris again, if you so much as speak to her—“

“Mom, no.”

“It’s us or the crown, Gladiolus. Your father never had the chance to make that choice.”

“Mom, put them down. Mom, no. Mom, _no, put them down!_ ”

Iris pushed the window shut, and shakily climbed down onto the grass. Gladio wouldn’t leave her. She knew that, even if she didn’t really know why. He’d give up everything, even Prince Noctis, and Iris knew that wasn’t a decision he should have to make. He _should_ be able to have both. 

It shouldn’t have to be this way.

Iris looked down at her math homework. She flipped it over.

 _Dear King Regis,_ she wrote, in her favorite large, looping handwriting.

_You don’t know me but I’m Clarus Amicitias daughter and one day I’m ~~go~~ gonna be a shield like my dad. Gladio needs to be a shield too. He should ~~prob~~ ~~probley~~ be one now. I can help cause no one thinks I can do anything and that means they won’t notice.  
p.s. don’t tell mom_

She folded the paper up in her book—She hoped the king didn’t mind getting letters on the back of a list of the seven times-tables—and sat quietly under the window, waiting for the shouting to die down. 

 

\---

 

“Iris Amicitia, please report to the guidance office. Iris Amicitia.”

Iris stood from her seat at the back of her class, trying to ignore the whispering of her classmates. She walked quickly down the hall, but it felt like every step was weighed down, pushing her forward against her will. Her teachers had commented recently on how quiet she was, on how she seemed so reserved and worrisome lately, and she hoped that none of them had mentioned anything to the principal. What would Iris say? She wasn’t ready—Gladio wasn’t ready. He was still moping around the house like the world had ended, not even bothering to pick up the practice sword he’d hidden away in the shed. Sure, it had been months since Iris had sent her letter to the king, but she was sure that she’d hear back from him soon. One day.

She reached the guidance office, where the counselor stood from the reception desk and gave her a strange, fearful look. 

“Right in here, darling,” she said, and opened the door to a small corner office. Iris stepped inside, and jumped when the door shut after her. 

A man with short-cropped hair leaned against the window, arms folded over his smart black uniform. He had a forbidding expression on his face, but Iris recognized it as one her father wore in some of his old photos. _Resting military face,_ Gladio had called it. He tried to smile at her, but it came out lopsided and thin.

“Hello, Iris,” he said. He held out a hand. “My name is Cor Leonis. I’m a friend of your father’s.”

“Oh!” Iris took his hand, and felt all her fear and concern fall off her like rainwater off the roof. “Gladdy told me about you.”

“Good to know,” said Mr. Leonis. He sat down in a plain brown chair, and gestured for Iris to sit as well. “But I’m here to see you, as a representative of his majesty King Regis Lucis Caelum.”

“Oh.” Iris twisted her hands in her lap. “ _Oh._ Was my… was my letter okay?”

Mr. Leonis nodded. “His majesty was impressed. And he’d like me to enlist you as an honorary Crownsguard, if you’ll accept.”

“But I’m _eight._ ” 

“Comes the hour, comes the man,” Mr. Leonis said. “Or, uh, woman. Tell me, Iris. Would you be willing to work for the crown, if it helps your brother earn his right to be Prince Noctis’ shield?”

Iris clenched her hands into fists, and nodded. Mr. Leonis gave her another sideways smile. 

“Well done,” he said. “Now, how good are you at keeping secrets?”

 

“And the award’s gonna be announced in front of everybody!” Iris cried, jumping onto the couch. 

Laurel Amicitia sank into her chair, seemingly too overcome to tell Iris off for climbing on the furniture. Gladio, watching from the corner where he sat with his book, gave Iris a look, and she sat down. 

“Two hundred thousand?” Laurel said, in a faint voice. 

Iris nodded. “And it’s all because of my fashion show from last year!” she cried. “The one Gladdy helped me with, remember?” Their mother made a face, and Gladio pretended to be engrossed in his book. Of course she didn’t remember. She spent half the time in bed, these days. Not that Gladio blamed her. If he didn’t have work to do himself, he’d probably spend most of the day curled up in his blankets, writing letters to Noct he didn’t dare send off in the mail.

He thought of the letters Noct had written back, the ink running together under the tap in his mother’s bathroom sink, and turned a page so forcefully that a corner ripped. 

“I have to go to Insomnia in order to get the prize money, though,” Iris said. “It’s gonna be at Prince Noctis’ big fifteenth birthday party. The one where they decide on his shield.”

Gladio felt the book slip from his fingers. 

“His what?” he and his mother asked. Iris looked down at her hands.

“Um. Prince Noctis is holding a kind of, a contest,” she said. “Since Gladdy’s not gonna be his shield anymore.”

“Gladio, you can go to your room now,” Laurel said. 

“I should go,” Gladio told her. “Mom, Noct can’t, he promised I would—“

“Gladio?” His mother’s voice rose in pitch, and Gladio shoved himself away from his chair, pounding up the stairs. 

“Anyways,” Iris said, as Gladio slammed his bedroom door hard enough to make the lights flicker. “They’re gonna announce it after his shield is chosen…”

Gladio rolled onto his side when his bedroom door opened, facing the wall. His mother sighed, and he heard the shuff of a hand brushing over the door frame.

“I know you think I’m a monster, Gladio,” she said. “But I’m only trying to keep you _safe._ ”

“Dad wouldn’t want this,” Gladio said. 

“No. I don’t think he would.” Laurel’s shoes clicked on the hardwood floor. “You’ll be staying here when we leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Gladio rolled onto his back despite himself. “They’re doing it so soon?”

“It’s on his highness’ birthday,” his mother said, with a shrug. “We barely have the time as it is. Look over the house while we’re gone, Gladiolus.”

Gladio clenched his fists under the covers. “Sure. You guys… you guys have a safe trip.” Gladio waited until the door clicked shut, then he scrambled off the bed. He made his way to the crack in the wall where he kept his secret stash of funds, and ran through them, over and over, letting the crumpled bills slip out of his fingers and slide over the floor at his feet.

 

The next morning, he saw Iris and his mother off, leaning on the wall of the carport as his dad’s barely used Crownsguard car trundled out of the drive. Iris pressed her face up against the glass as they disappeared around the bend, and it wasn’t until the rumble of the engine disappeared that Gladio made his way back inside. 

He bolted up the stairs. 

Fifteen hundred gil. If he begged Val, one of the hunters at HQ, he _might_ be able to hitch a ride to Hammerhead. After that, he could probably… shit, he didn’t know if his dad was still on good terms with the owner, but he’d heard stories. Maybe he could rent a chocobo. Then he’d get into Insomnia—he still had his citizenship papers lying around somewhere—and… and make it all the way across the city to the Citadel in time for Prince Noctis’ birthday to be over. 

Hell. He didn’t even have a _sword._

He shoved his gil in his back pockets and ran down the stairs. It took a few minutes to get his documents out of the file cabinet in his mom’s room, but it felt like hours, precious time ticking away as the hour of the tournament—Why the _fuck_ would Noct agree to a tournament?—came closer. He folded his papers in the pocket of his hoodie and ran out the door. 

“Bout damn time,” said a man’s voice, thick as gravel and hoarse with age. Gladio looked up in alarm.

A large yellow tow truck idled outside, a garish shark painted on one side. A man stood at the driver’s side door, stubbing a cigarette out on the fresh paint.

“You Clarus’ boy?” he asked. Behind him, sitting at the wheel, a blonde-haired girl only a few years older than Gladio stuck her head out and waved. 

“Ain’t _he_ a cutie,” she said. The man at the door grunted. 

“Not too bright, though,” he said. “I asked you a question, boy.”

“I’m Gladio, yeah,” Gladio said. “How do you know my dad?”

“Got a call from an old friend last night,” the man said, ignoring Gladio’s question altogether. “Said you might be in need of a ride.”

Gladio struggled to speak around a lump in his throat. The man rolled his eyes. 

“Aw, hell, just like his daddy. Don’t cry on me, kid, just get in the damn truck. That boy Cor left a present for you, it’s takin’ up the whole gods-cursed seat.”

Gladio climbed up after the man into the truck, which had wide leather seats with padding pushing out of the cracks, and a long wooden box at their feet. He nudged it open with his shoe as the girl pulled them out of park and blared the horn with a whoop. 

“I ain’t never drove a fugitive before,” she said, grinning at Gladio. He smiled back, and the old man between them scowled. 

“Eyes off my granddaughter,” he muttered. Gladio shook his head and pushed the top of the box off completely. The girl whistled, and the man ordered her to keep her eyes on the road. 

An engraved broadsword lay in the box, the sharp edge of the blade gleaming in the early morning light. Just at the handle was a black cloth mask, which Gladio picked up and held over his eyes. 

“Cor said he wanted to give you a fair chance,” the man said. He watched Gladio set the mask reverently down in the box again. “Just that. A chance. It’s less than what an Amicitia deserves, in my opinion, but it’s the best you’re gonna get.”

Gladio turned and pulled the man in to a crushing embrace. 

“Fucking hell,” the man groaned. “What’d I say?”

“Aw, you guys,” said the girl, as she gunned the gas, bringing the tow truck to roaring life. “Y’all’re gonna make me cry.”


	4. Chapter 4

The citadel of Insomnia shone with the light of the crystal that powered the city, a beam of magic shining against the dull orange of the sunset. Cars lined the roundabout at the front steps, embossed with the crest of the royal family, and delicate lanterns trailed over wires that looped around lampposts and pillars leading to the citadel gardens. 

Cid Sophiar’s Hammerhead tow truck wheezed its way through the gate and trundled to a stop. The horn blared three times, making the guests who wandered by jump and stare, and Cid’s nineteen-year-old granddaughter, Cindy, cheered loud enough to echo. 

Gladio dropped down from the side of the truck. He’d exchanged his hoodie for a black leather jacket Cid had dug up from behind the seat, and had already tied on the mask. He saw the reason for the mask immediately: The other guests, most of whom were staring at him in a mix of horror and fascination, were all masked as well. Some were in glittery, framed animal heads, or in spikes like daemonic butterflies, but Gladio felt that the simple black would suit him fine. He fussed with his sword—There really was no right way to hold it when it wasn’t in use—and turned to Cid. 

He bowed as much as the sword propped on his shoulder would allow. 

“Paw-paw,” Cindy said. “I gotta see this.”

“We’re the getaway car,” Cid said. “We stay put.” He looked to Gladio. “Not that I think you’ll need it, kid.”

“Thank you,” Gladio said. “I don’t think I will. I’ll pay you back when I’m shield, though.”

“Watch that ego,” Cid said, and pulled out a cigarette. “Go on. If you see that Cor, tell him we’re even. And if you see old Reggie, tell him—” He made a gesture that Gladio was pretty sure would get him arrested. 

“Paw-paw,” Cindy chided. “Have a little class.”

Gladio straightened from his bow, winked at Cindy, and squeezed between the cars blocking him from the main path. The other guests gave him a wide berth and watched him out of the corner of their eyes, but he didn’t care. He was at the _Citadel_ again. It even smelled the same, all steel and stone, and he could just see the pink cracks in the marble steps from what must have been rain earlier. There were damp patches in the walkway, and when Gladio climbed up the side stair to the gardens, he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath.

The gardens had been transformed. He remembered running in them as a kid, chasing after Noct or Ignis, but now he could see the patterns the hedges made, the swirls of flowers and the criss-crossing patterns of string lights over the bushes. There were guests everywhere, all finely dressed, even the ones bearing swords or knives, and Gladio shrugged his shoulders in his jacket. He probably should’ve kept his tank top on at least, but he couldn’t turn back. Cid would think he was trying to run. 

A woman pattered up to him from a podium set a ways down the path. “You’re a contestant?” she asked. Gladio nodded, holding back a sarcastic remark about his sword being a giveaway, and she pulled out a piece of paper. “You’re number two hunded and sixty-five,” she said. “Your match should take place around three in the morning.”

Three? Gladio took the paper in numb fingers. There was no way the Noctis _he_ knew would be able to stay up ‘til three. But he had to try for it, anyways. He walked on, towards the circle set aside for the contestants, and kept a wary eye out for Iris and his mother. If he was spotted, that would be the end of it, but he wanted to get a chance to get Iris alone. He could petition the king to have her go to school there, even if he _didn’t_ make it as shield. At seventeen, Gladio could move out of the house easily enough—Dave had even offered, in a roundabout way, to let him live in the caravan if he “needed some space”—but he wasn’t about to leave Iris alone. If the king wouldn’t help, then maybe Noct…

Gladio didn’t have to crane his neck over the crowd to see the two chairs set up on the edge of the sparring circle. One chair was empty, but the young man sitting in the second one looked like he’d been dumped there against his will. He wore a soft black suit over his slim shoulders, his legs somehow managed to be gangly despite how short he was in comparison to the high-backed chair, and his dark hair blew in his eyes. He looked half asleep. At his side, a tall man with Ignis’ face bent down and whispered in his ear. 

_Noctis._ Gladio rocked forward, eyeing the crowd for a route to the other side of the circle, but a crash of steel caught his attention. The two men sparring in the center, one stocky and dark-haired, the other with a riot of red curls, had moved from slow, exaggerated movements, showing off the control they had over their weapons and the strength of their arm, and were going at it with a fury. Gladio bit at his lip. They were too busy trying to show perfect form that they were letting their defense go. Their blows were too wild, now, and they weren’t aware of anything but each other. If there were a person with them, someone they had to defend, they’d be a poor bodyguard. 

Then, just as one of the men pushed the other to his knees with a roar of triumph, Gladio saw a flutter of maroon tumble over the railing. Prince Noctis rose from his seat. Bony elbows scraped against the rough earth of the sparring circle, and a cry came up from the crowd as the man’s blade arced towards the girl, who lifted a hand to her face and shouted a familiar name—

Gladio had never moved so fast in his life. He didn’t bother drawing his sword, but vaulted over the fence and rolled, wrapping Iris in his arms just as the man’s blade ran a thin slice along his back. He hissed, and Iris grabbed at the lapels of his jacket. 

“Sorry,” she said, in a frantic, high-pitched babble. “Sorry, Gladdy, I knew you were gonna be late and I had to—“

“Not your fault,” He whispered. Iris looked down. He stood, gave her a quick once-over—Some scrapes, maybe a bruise on her arm—and spun on the man standing behind him, whose face had gone ashen with shock.

Gladio’s open palm struck him square in the cheek, ringing loud over the hushed crowd.

“What kind of a _shield,_ ” Gladio said, “don’t watch his surroundings? What kind of a _shield,_ ” he struck the man again, and blocked his arm before he could think to raise his sword, “don’t know how to pull a blow?” The man tried to put his blade between Gladio and himself, but Gladio was too close, and he’d been practicing hand-to-hand with the hunters long enough to know not to let up. He backed the man to the edge of the crowd, which pushed back.

“This isn’t your fight,” said the other contestant. 

“I don’t know,” drawled a bored, light voice. “Maybe it should be.”

Gladio stepped back as Prince Noctis stepped over the rope at the other end of the circle. Noct had his hands in his pockets, and barely spared a glance at Gladio as he walked up behind his shoulder. Gladio’s ears _burned._

“The big guy’s got a point,” Noct said, nudging the back of Gladio’s shin with his foot. “Let’s shake it up, yeah. Since he interrupted your fight, how about you two,” he nodded at the contestants, “try to get to _me._ Through him.”

“Highness.” Ignis, standing at the rope railing, was glaring murder at Noct from under his glasses. Noct’s gaze slid past him, and he bumped his shoulder against Gladio’s.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think you’re being kind of an asshole about it, but fine,” Gladio said, and the gasp of outrage from the crowd was drowned out in Noct’s bark of a laugh. 

“Yeah, I like you,” he said. “Alright, let’s go.” He stepped back, hands still in his pockets, and shrugged. “Go on, big guy. Defend me.”

Gladio drew his sword. The other two men gave each other a heated look, then hefted their own weapons.

“Stay at my back,” Gladio said, when the red-head started moving towards them in a slow half-circle. He lowered his voice. “This guy’s gonna hesitate.”

“What about the other guy?” Prince Noctis asked. Gladio snorted.

“Too pissed to care.” 

“I wonder why,” Noct said, and Gladio grinned. He checked his back, and was relieved to find Iris safely back on the edge of the circle, behind the rope. Their mother was nowhere near her, though. _That_ was strange. 

Sure enough, it was the dark-haired man, his cheeks red from Gladio’s hand, who made the first move. It was laughably easy to track. Gladio just pushed Noct to the right, twisted his sword a little, and dragged it along the ground in a circle, spraying dirt right in his opponent’s eyes. The man cursed and spat, stumbled through the curtain of earth, and aimed a blow for Gladio’s neck. 

Gladio blocked it. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Noctis yawning.

“Long night?” he asked. The red-head was trying to flank him. He yanked Noct down with an arm around his neck, holding him to his side, and parried the expected strike. As he thought, the red-head put no strength behind his attack, and he had to step back to shake out his arms. 

“More like boring,” Noctis said. He hadn’t taken his hands out of his pockets, and he seemed utterly unfazed by the fact that Gladio was shoving his face to his hip. “Not like I’m actually gonna pick anyone.”

“Yeah? Then what’s this about?” Gladio twisted Noct around to stand at his back as he fended off a series of admittedly powerful blows. He pushed back, and hooked the man’s blade with his, sending it flying. “Just something to pass the time?”

“Pretty much,” Noct said. He leaned around Gladio to watch the dark-haired man shout at a man in Crownsguard black, who was gesturing to his fallen sword and shaking his head. “No offense. You’re pretty good, but I’m kind of waiting for someone.”

Damn, the red-head finally caught on that this was for real. Gladio had to put space between him and Noctis, which meant leaving him open for attack. “You got any shields in that armiger of yours?”

“Oh, you know about it?” Noct sounded almost interested. “Sure, I got one, but it isn’t for you.”

“I ain’t gonna break it, but if you won’t draw your own sword—“

“Why would I?” Noct ducked behind Gladio’s back again. “You have it handled.”

“And when you’re really in trouble, you’ll stand there with your thumbs up your ass while other people do the work?”

“Hey!” Noct yelped as Gladio dragged him down again, blocking the other guy one-handed. 

“Don’t like bein’ manhandled?” Gladio asked. “Pick up a sword.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Noct summoned a shield. Gladio swung it onto his arm, jerked his head, and Noct hunched into the space between it and Gladio. Gladio turned his blade so that the flat of it swept the red-head off his feet, dumping him in the dirt. A woman in a Crownsguard uniform came running forward, taking the man by the arm. 

Gladio shook dust off the shield and handed it back to Noctis, who staggered under its weight. “Still bored?” he asked. 

Noctis banished the shield with a flash of magic. “Dunno. Give me your name and I’ll tell you.” 

They were too close. Noctis wasn’t wearing a mask: His eyes were a lighter blue than Gladio remembered, and his cheeks were thinning out, showing off a jawline that Gladio had seen on King Regis, when he was young and staring up at him from behind Clarus' robes. Noct raised a hand to Gladio’s mask, and lifted it just enough to get a good look.

“Hey, you,” he said.

Gladio pushed an errant lock of dark hair out of Noct’s eyes, and smirked. “Hey, yourself.”


	5. Chapter 5

“When did you know it was me?” Gladio asked. He and Noct were hiding out behind a giant fountain in the unlit part of the gardens, sharing a tray of pastries Noct swiped from an unfortunate waiter. Ignis had called for a break while Noct was still holding the edges of Gladio’s mask, and quietly directed them to a side path where they could avoid the main press of people looking for a moment of the prince’s time. He’d whispered something to Noct as he passed, and Noct’s face was still pink from the all-encompassing blush that followed.

“I think I figured it out when you called me an asshole,” Noct said. He dug the basil leaves out of his pastry tart and went back to eating. “No one else would dare. Ignis thinks it, though.”

“Yeah, I bet he does.” Noct grinned and pushed at Gladio’s shoulder. He looked nothing like the bored, drawling prince from the ring, not with a ridiculous grin on his face, or pastry sugar on his cheek, or his hair all ruffled from where Gladio’s hand had shaken it out of its gelled spikes. He looked more like the guy who wrote Gladio letters full of chatter about _when you’re home_ and _when we’re together, we can…_

Gladio dusted the sugar off Noct’s face with a thumb. Noct’s ears flushed red, just like they did when they were kids. 

“I missed you,” Noct said, impulsively. “Now that you’re back, I can show you that fishing spot me and Iggy found, by the canal. And you and Iris can live in the Citadel if it’s too weird to be in your old house again, which means we’ll be right down the hall—“

“Hold on,” Gladio said. “It ain’t set in stone, Noct. All those people...”

“Who _cares?_ ” said Noct. He sat up, accidentally upending the now empty tray into the water. “I told you back there. You’re my shield. You always were.”

“Noct,” Gladio started, but Noct stopped him, climbing up to his knees on the wide lip of the fountain. 

“No one out there,” Noct said, gesturing towards the lighted hedges and the crowd of murmuring party goers, “would go through the shit you did to get here. Or to protect Iris. I know, you didn’t say anything about it,” he added, when Gladio stiffened. “But I can read between the lines, okay? You think I didn’t wonder why you never talked about your mom? Or why Cor had me send letters to your _job_ instead of your house? And all his meetings with Dad?” 

Gladio felt dread, cold as ice, run down his spine. “Cor talked to the king about—“

“I don’t know,” Noct said. “But it doesn’t matter. You still want to be my shield?” he asked. 

“Of course I do,” Gladio said, without thinking. 

“Good. Then you are.” 

Then, while Gladio was still reeling from this, Noct leaned forward, grabbed the sleeve of Gladio’s jacket, and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, chaste and light against his lips, but Gladio could feel the way Noct’s fingers tightened on his jacket, the heat of his red cheeks and his uncertain gaze. Gladio’s mind short-circuited for all of a second before the rest of him, taking pity on the overwhelmed, roaring chaos of his thoughts, took over. He kissed Noct back, slow and hesitant, and was just about to wrap an arm around his waist to draw him up when he heard a muffled shriek in the rosebushes. 

Noctis pulled away. “Did you hear—“

They both looked at the roses. The leaves quivered apologetically, and Iris Amicitia fell out of them, looking sheepish and mildly horrified. 

“Sorry, Gladdy,” she said, when Gladio opened his mouth in outrage. “I wasn’t _spying._ I was just… keeping an eye on things.”

Noct snorted. “Sure you were. You’re Iris, right? Didn’t you fall in the circle earlier?”

Iris blushed deeper than Noct. “Um,” she said, looking from Noct to Gladio. “I, um. I knew Gladdy would have to wait, so I thought. Maybe if I fell in, and he caught me, you’d see. And. Um. You were _kissing._ ”

“And you’re grounded,” Gladio said. Iris gasped.

“Gladdy, no!”

“No manga for a month.”

Iris looked to Noct. “Prince Noctis, tell him not to.”

“Woah,” Noct said, raising both hands. He gave Gladio a smug, superior smirk. “I’m not getting in the middle of this one.”

Iris groaned and bunched her fists in her new dress. “You can’t ground me,” she said. “ _I’m_ working for the king.”

“Really,” Gladio said. 

“Yes, _really._ I wrote him a letter, and Mr. Leonis came to my school, and we set this whole thing up so _you_ can make out with the _prince_ , which I guess is what shields do now.”

Noct covered his mouth with a hand, but it did nothing to stop the bark of laughter from escaping. Gladio just stared. 

“Iris!”

Both Iris and Gladio froze. Noct looked from one to the other, mouth open in confusion, and turned at the sound of feet crunching on the path. Iris made a frantic flapping motion at them with both hands. 

“It’s Mom,” she whispered. 

“Iris, who are you talking to?”

Noct covered Gladio’s face with both hands. “Noct,” Gladio mumbled, “that ain’t gonna work—“ Noct jumped on top of him, knocking them both into the fountain. Iris shrieked. Gladio’s feet were still hooked on the lip of the fountain, and Noct was on top of him, holding him up by the collar so that his hair draped over Gladio’s face.

“I panicked!” he hissed.

“You think?” 

They both grinned, and Gladio felt laughter bubble up around the terror at his mother’s approach. Noct righted his mask and kissed him, dripping water in his eyes. 

“Hi, Mom!” Iris squeaked. 

“What on earth happened here?” Laurel’s voice was almost amused, light, the way it was on good days when she felt like the person she was before. “Are those boys—“

“They fell!” Iris said. “It’s okay. Are you ready for the announcement?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t think they’re having it,” Laurel said. “We should go to the hotel… Are you _sure…_ ”

“Deep breath,” Noct whispered. Gladio gasped, and Noct shoved him underwater. 

_That_ plan worked about as well as expected. Gladio heard muffled speaking, felt Noct lift a hand off his chest to wave, and then the tightness of his chest and the pain in his throat was too much, and Gladio flung himself out of the water. Noct tried to shove him back down, but the damage was already done: Laurel looked up from where she was fixing Iris’ hair, and there was that subtle shift to her expression, a hardness in her eyes and mouth that made Gladio’s skin crawl. 

“You two did this,” she said, gripping Iris’ shoulders. “You two _collaborated_ to bring us here.”

“Mom, you’re squeezing too tight,” Iris whispered.

“You made Iris _lie_ to me—“

“Hey,” Noct said, sitting up. “That’s not—“

“You couldn’t just let it go,” Laurel said. “You had to corrupt Iris, _Iris._ ”

“ _Mom,_ it _hurts._ ”

“Maybe you should let go of her,” Noct said. Gladio winced as his mother turned to Noct. “Okay, maybe I phrased that wrong. As the prince of Lucis,” he said, covered in fountain water and dripping a puddle on the path, “I’m _ordering you_ to let her go.”

Noct tried to hold himself to his full height, which wasn’t really that impressive, but there was a glint of steel in his eyes, a tilt to his chin that Gladio had never seen before. Gladio climbed out of the fountain, and shook off his sodden jacket. 

“Iris,” he said. His own voice sounded low in his ears, strange and yet painfully familiar at the same time. “Remember what I showed you? Hands up, arms out?”

Iris ducked, hands up between Laurel’s arms, and pushed her arms outward. Laurel let go, and Iris ran to Noct and Gladio.

“It’s over, Mom,” Gladio said. 

“Perhaps…” A man’s low, rough-edged voice called out from the path, and it was Noct’s turn to freeze, “before this little scene escalates more than it has to, it would be best to clear the air.”

King Regis, flanked by Cor Leonis on one side and Ignis Scientia on the other, strode into view. Ignis was holding a blue file folder to his chest and looking nervous but determined, and Cor’s expression, as always, revealed nothing. The steel in _King Regis’_ eyes made Noctis seem weak and unsure. 

“Dad,” Noct said, and the king had to stop for a moment to take in his son’s drenched state. His mouth twisted. “Dad, you can’t let her take—“

“Noctis,” King Regis said. “If you would show young Iris to the butterfly pavilion while we sort this out.”

“Your majesty, no,” Iris said. “I have to be here.” She grabbed Gladio’s hand. 

“I’m not leaving him,” said Noct. He reached up to place a hand on the back of Gladio’s neck, fingertips pushing up the ends of his hair.

“I must insist,” said the king. Ignis stepped forward.

“Your majesty, if I may,” he said, and handed the king his folder. The king nodded, and Ignis went to Iris. “Iris Amicitia,” he said, with a little bow that made Iris smile for all of a second. “If you would accompany me to the pavilion, I promise that the king and the prince will keep your brother safe.”

Iris sighed deeply. “Okay,” she said. She let go of Gladio and took Ignis’ hand, and let him lead her off down another path. Gladio could hear her loud whisper as they passed: “So, are all people from the Citadel cute like you and Prince Noctis?”

 _Oh, gods,_ Gladio thought. _I’ve raised a monster._

King Regis waited until Iris was out of earshot to open the folder in his hands. “Laurel Amicitia,” he said, and his tone softened. “Would that we could have met under better circumstances. Please,” he added, when she opened her mouth to speak. “A number of troubling accounts have been brought to my attention, which, as a long-time friend of the Amicitia family, I cannot in good conscience ignore. Seven eye-witnesses from the Duscaen-Leide Hunter HQ have made statements regarding concern for Gladiolus Amicitia’s physical and emotional well-being. Photographic evidence of what appears to be physical abuse—“

“Photos?” Gladio whispered to Noct. “Who took _photos?_ ”

Noct shrugged. “I dunno. Cor’s been disappearing a lot lately. Maybe it was him? One of the hunters?”

King Regis glanced their way, and they both stood to attention. “Doctored school records,” he was saying, “to pull him out of school before the legal age requirement, in direct defiance of a law _you_ encouraged your husband to vote for twenty years ago. A statement from Iris Amicitia, age eight and…” King Regis sighed. “And three quarters, she says, detailing a troubling record of both her and Gladio’s home life. Gladiolus, would you say these accounts are true?” He held out the folder for Gladio to take, then seemed to think better of it and held it open for him. “I’m sorry you have to see this, son,” he said, in a lower voice. “But it’s necessary.”

Gladio looked at the photographs, the statements taken by hunters he never thought had noticed a thing, by teachers who had seemed indifferent, by classmates’ parents, by Cor and Iris. He closed his eyes. 

“They left out some things,” he said, at last. Laurel let out a weak, broken gasp. 

“Gladiolus,” she said. “I only wanted…”

“What you wanted is of no importance.” King Regis’ voice had lost all pretense of sympathy. “You are no doubt aware, Mrs. Amicitia, that in a form you signed, you and Clarus declared that should you be unable to care for your children—“

“In the case of _injury or death,_ ” Laurel cried. 

“Custody of Gladiolus and Iris would fall to me,” King Regis continued. “And it has. If you will go with Marshal Leonis, he will take you to the Citadel, where we will discuss the charges filed against you.”

“ _Charges?_ Gladio,” his mother said, as Cor took her arm. “Gladio, you _know_ this isn’t—you know I love you.”

“I don’t know,” Gladio said. “I’m sorry.”

It would have been better if she’d left cursing. If she’d left glaring at him with the kind of hatred that made Gladio’s stomach twist in knots, not crying, not calling his name, not—

“Son.” King Regis stood before him, a hand on Gladio’s damp shoulder. “Perhaps we should get you somewhere a little… drier. How do you feel about cocoa?”

And so Gladio found himself bundled up in black blankets on the living room floor of the royal family’s apartments, wearing one of Cor Leonis’ old pajama bottoms. Noctis, similarly wrapped in sheets, leaned against his chest, and Gladio held a lukewarm mug of hot-chocolate over the prince’s middle. Iris was cheating at chess with Ignis by the television, which showed a live-feed of the tournament that had already been long decided. Gladio felt a _little_ bad for the people fighting in the ring, but not enough to say anything about it. The king was there at the edge of the sparring circle, probably to break the bad news to everyone at the end of the night, but Noct’s phone buzzed with occasional texts of him checking in, complete with emojis that neither of them could decipher. 

“I’m sorry it had to go down that way,” Noct said, after a while. “I mean, I suspected, but I didn’t know it was like… like that.”

Gladio sighed. It felt like his whole body was an enormous sigh waiting to happen, wound tight and straining. “I don’t know, Noct,” he said. “I’m just… I’m _exhausted._ ”

“No kidding.” Noct set down his own mug and turned around in Gladio’s arms. “But this is still what you want, right? This?”

 _Me,_ he didn’t say, but the word hung between them all the same. 

“That’ll never change,” Gladio said. Noct smiled, and surged up on his knees. Their teeth clacked, their noses pushed together all wrong, and Noct’s elbow jabbed into his chest, but as far as Gladio was concerned, it was pretty much perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Really, guys?" Iris asks, gesturing to Ignis. "Right in front of my future husband?"
> 
> (Iris' "future husband" will change multiple times throughout her life.)
> 
> One more chapter to go to wrap it all up! The confrontation with Laurel was hard to write.


	6. Epilogue

Iris Amicitia thundered down the stairs of the royal apartments, rattling the pictures on the first floor drawing room as she made her scrambling descent. At fifteen, she was still small and wiry, with hard muscle under her black dress, which would have made her look halfway respectable if it weren’t for the pink leggings she wore underneath. She had a healing scar on her jaw in the shape of a crescent moon, hands rough with the bite of sword and knife hilts, and she was wearing a beaded necklace one of her friends from school had made for her. When she saw Noct and Gladio walking in with King Regis between them, she grinned and darted over to kiss Regis on the cheek. 

“Your majesty! How are the Nifs treating you?” she asked. Regis cocked an eyebrow.

“No amount of Amicitia charm will sway me, my dear,” he said, and Iris’ face fell. “Noctis, are you _certain_ you’ve finished packing?”

“Dad, there’s only so much I can fit in the armiger before it explodes,” Noct said, hooking his fingers in Gladio’s back pocket while Iris helped Regis out of his overrobe. Gladio gave him a warning look, and Noct smirked. 

“Nonsense,” said Regis. “Don’t stand there, boys, we’re having dinner, not a council session.”

Gladio pulled away from Noct in order to hug Iris hello. She rushed to set the table while Regis conjured food from the armiger: Obviously pilfered from the kitchens, judging by the steak that Gladio had seen on the grill when he’d stopped by to help Ignis with his daily baking experiments. Ignis was having his own family get-together before their trip out of the city, and had taken Noct’s friend Prompto along as his parents were out of town. Which left Regis, Gladio, Noct and Iris at the dinner table together, a weekly tradition that had started the month Gladio and Iris moved in. 

Iris held Regis’ chair for him, and he gave her an arch look. “You are still in disgrace, young lady,” he said. Iris sighed. 

Iris had been ten when she’d marched into the training yards while Noct, Gladio, and Cor were training, and announced that she would be King Regis’ new shield. “He needs someone to be with him full-time,” she’d said, when the three men stared at her in shock. “I’m an Amicitia, and I live with you guys anyway.”

It had sent Laurel, living in self-imposed exile in Duscae, into a panic, but there was nothing she could have done. Gladio had started training even earlier than Iris, and as Cor said that afternoon in the locker rooms, everyone deserved a chance. She took to her lessons with a grim determination that stopped being cute and amusing after the second week, and Cor was talking about moving her up to bladed weapons at the age of eleven. 

Every night, Iris would stop at the picture of Clarus that Regis kept on the stairway wall, and stare at her father’s unmoving eyes. Then she’d smile, faint and soft, and go running up the rest of the stairs. 

When she was fifteen, she got her driver’s license. 

When she was fifteen and three months old, she showed Regis, Noct, and Gladio that the problem with growing up in a home with Laurel (and if Gladio was honest with himself, it was only one of many) was that it made her and Gladio into people who knew how to keep a secret too well. Iris was well out of the city before anyone realized she hadn’t gone to school that day, blazing a trail straight to the heart of the Tempering Grounds. 

“It’s my fault,” Cor had said, as he and Gladio drove after her, hunched in the too-small Crownsguard rental car. “She kept asking for stories about your father, and I told her about the time I fought Gilgamesh—“

“And Dad dragged you by the ear all the way up the Citadel stairs, right?” Gladio asked. Cor pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That was me, though,” he said. “This is _Iris._ ”

They were too late. By the time they made it to the mouth of the cave where Cor had lost to the spectral demigod who was said to judge the worthiness of would-be shields, Iris was sitting outside. She had an unwrapped granola bar in one hand, a sword propped up between her knees, and blood pouring from a gash that ran down her chin and along the ridge of her jawline.

“Hey, Gladdy,” she said. “Hey, Cor. Gilgamesh says hi.”

Later, Noct said that he’d never seen the king truly at a loss until the moment Iris showed up, cloaked in power and holding a symbol of the blademaster’s esteem. 

She was promptly grounded. 

“You may have proven yourself worthy of being a shield,” Regis said, when he locked Iris’ sword away in the weapons’ room, “but you won’t be allowed to take that title until your restriction is done.”

“And when’ll it be over?” Iris asked. Regis had smiled.

“When you’re thirty.”

So far, Iris’ attempts at convincing the king to let her be his shield during the upcoming treaty with Niflheim were coming up short. She sat in sullen silence for all of a minute while Gladio and Noct sat down, caught Regis staring, and tried to look like they weren’t, in fact, holding hands under the table. Like they’d always done. And Regis, like always, pretended not to notice.

Living with the king had been… strange, for Gladio. He only had a year before he turned eighteen and had his tattoo mapped out and his role as shield made official, but even then, it was considered a given that he would stay in the apartments with Regis, Noctis, and Iris. He had daily training with Cor, a second round with Noct, and tutoring in the afternoons, but that was all that was expected of him. For the first few weeks, he found himself feeling groundless, uncertain what to do with his free time. 

That’s when Regis called a weekend holiday from work, and took Gladio camping. It was just the two of them, sitting over a fire while Regis, terribly bizarre in casual trousers and an old shirt, told Gladio stories of his father as a young shield. Gladio had just listened, and at the end of the night, when the tight knot that had lain in his chest for so long finally started to loosen, he told Regis stories of his own. 

It became a tradition of sorts. The first night would be theirs, and the second would see the arrival of Ignis, Noctis, Iris and Prompto, flooding the private campsite with noise. Noct caught more fish than Ignis could cook, Iris mooned after Ignis and Prompto in turns, and Prompto would document it all. 

Prompto was a good friend to Noct. Quiet, sometimes, in a way Gladio found too familiar, and self-reliant to a fault. Gladio made a point of running with him in the mornings when he started training for the Crownsguard, and while neither of them outright spoke of the odd, small kinship they’d found there, they both _knew._ It was enough.

And then there was Noctis.

Noct kicked Gladio’s shin under his chair when Iris, still trying to win points with a king who had a resolve one could bend steel around, gathered up the dishes. He and Gladio collapsed on the couch together, legs tangled, Noct sprawled over Gladio with the full intent of using him as a glorified mattress. King Regis passed Gladio a drink, smiled at his son, and sat in the corner chair. Iris went to the bookshelf and traced her fingers over the spines. It was another tradition, an Amicitia one that the Caelums had adopted as their own. 

“What do you think?” Iris said. “Philosophy? History? _Politics?_ ”

“How about a classic?” Gladio asked, when Iris’ hand passed over an old paperback, its cover waterstained and soft. Iris rolled her eyes.

“I thought you were against the whole _true love_ stuff, Gladdy,” Iris said.

Gladio looked down at Noct, lazily drifting off in his arms. “I dunno,” he said. “I can keep an open mind.”

Iris shook her head and pulled down the novel. She draped herself sideways over a chair, and, while King Regis stretched his legs in his seat and Noct’s head lolled back on Gladio’s shoulder, opened the book and began to read.

“And then,” she said. “Yuna recalled the waters in which their love was first discovered, like the blossoming of a flower at dawn…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you, everyone, for your support and wonderful comments throughout this. An added extra: 
> 
> Iris ends up sneakily serving as Regis' shield during the treaty signing regardless. With the blessing of Gilgamesh, she is just strong enough to take down Glauca, and she, Luna, Nyx, and Regis escape the city. From there, the story of the game takes quite a different turn... :)


End file.
